


To be somewhere else (With love, of course)

by popyourballoon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bartender Stiles, Canon Compliant, Could Be Canon, Dad!Derek, Darkness Around The Heart, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Leaving Home, M/M, Nightmares, after season 3, loosing mind, vague!timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popyourballoon/pseuds/popyourballoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything here, every shadow, every light, every perfectly placed apple displayed on his living room table; everything, Scott smiling, Deaton waving, neighbour’s dog pissing on their letterbox, everything haunted him.<br/>So he leaves.</p><p>And Derek comes back and Stiles is gone.</p><p>OR</p><p>A story where there is darkness around one certain precious heart, unbearable by all the memories and inability to disconnect from them. A story where Stiles leaves and is a bartender in a nameless city. A story where Derek comes back to BH and understands what they've all lost and goes away again to get him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is not enough Bartender!Stiles in this fandom.  
> There is not enough Derek being a proper dad for Isaac in this fandom.  
> There is not enough everything, really. 
> 
> And then there were prompts about Stiles leaving and Derek coming back and missing him. And then there was the darkness around the heart, too captivating of a plot line to ignore.  
> And then there was a vacation in which I fell ill. Twice.  
> So, fuck it. Sterek.

All the good things in life were simple. Common knowledge. Instinct. Cliché.

Hands stuffed in his track pants, chest bare, room filled with greyish hued shadows in the light of a rainy morning only barely started, Stiles seems to get another understanding of life. All the bad things in life were simple too.

Woken up by simple dreams turned nightmares, he understands; there is no point in torturing himself. No point holding on to this blank, bland existence where his father doesn’t trust him to go out safe, unharmed for a grocery run. Where Scott is so focused on fixing himself to be a true Alpha and a perfect future boyfriend for some nameless girl replacing hole of the size of Allison, he doesn’t even have time for Stiles, not really. Allison, broken, lost, confused had found her solace in Isaac, which was so _fucking_ good, no sarcasm or ill will intended.

He could continue this list, ticking off fingers counting one by one, until he would need to borrow someone else’s toes and palms, but it would be fairly pointless. The truth of the matter is – everyone’s focusing on getting themselves better, at least a bit sane, at least a bit more functional for the normal world in which they had to live now. He couldn’t. Everything here, every shadow, every light, every perfectly placed apple displayed on his living room table; everything, Scott smiling, Deaton waving, neighbour’s dog pissing on their letterbox, everything haunted him. The very last detail.

The darkness was personal, the darkness focused on important elements in his life, outward from own self-awareness, outward from his existence. Every memory, almost all of it, now sullied by visions, hysterical impurity, drenched in black oil, unable to scrub it off, to see all the things inside his head as they were before.

_I need to be somewhere else. I need to have something else in my life. I need memories the darkness can’t latch onto, can’t cover and darken irreplaceably, fucking up with all the colours, hues and saturation settings. I need to know… Does it extend beyond Beacon Hills? Does it fallow me everywhere where I go? Can I ignore it? How long it takes me to settle for it to ruin everything again, if it takes any time at all? I need to find out, dad._

_I will be back when I have._

_Stiles.  
With love, of course._

_P.S. And, please, look after your health. I don’t need visions of you choking on curly fries and having a stroke from high cholesterol or whatever. Spare me._

 

So he leaves. Very simply, hoody up, sleeves stretched, normal backpack, essentials, Stiles the Scout package, packed even before Scott had been bitten. Always ready to leave, when panic was too much or life got too painful or he couldn’t handle the guilt and vast emptiness of his mother dying and father distancing himself.

Apparently, here is the last straw, here is that grim, damp morning after the rain, with sun barely shining through grey clouds and thick canopy of the forest, here is the moment in time when Stiles leaves. He doesn’t have the decency to say goodbye, doesn’t have the decency to really make them understand. He can’t, he is exhausted, he knows he is gullible, he knows one broken-off word form  dad or small look of desperation from Scott will be all that it takes for him to stay, to stay and slowly go insane. Slowly, slowly, like one drop of water falling on forehead at the time. The quiet road leading from Beacon Hills seems more friendly, more understanding of his sudden wanderlust, even accepting.

It doesn’t matter if the darkness is calling, screaming after its creator, it doesn’t matter if the road is looking scary and lonely, it doesn’t matter if panic grips on, deeply struggling to seize his insides. It doesn’t matter, because he is not dreaming, he is walking, it doesn’t matter, because the air is fresh and easy to breathe and Stiles will own this decision, he will own his life, even if it kills him.

 

** …↨≈↨≈↨… **

****

The pack of cards was starting to get thinner and thinner, corners bent, crumpled, paper dirty, no longer shiny. That exact moment when he can’t find the Ace of Spades, the cornerstone of all the fucking Aces, the symbol or whatever, that’s the moment Derek decides to throw it out. In one of the Beacon Hills trashcans preferably, hundreds of miles away from where he is now.

So he goes back, leaving Cora with her things and her terrible desire to travel and never stop. She will come to a halt, come to face her problems and life choices when she’s ready, if she ever is. Derek knows not to push, Derek knows to let people handle their problems in a way that doesn’t make them feel trapped.

Which is why Beacon Hills is such a familiar scene, emotionally at least, if not in its physical make-up. Everyone seems to be doing their own thing of getting over, moving on, building lives. Scott doesn’t even startle when he sees Derek, just smiles and claps a hand on his back.

“If you wish to be in my pack, you are welcome. If you wish to be in my pack, but not consider me as an Alpha, you can do that too.” _I owe you for my previous bullshit_ seems to go unsaid. He agrees to think about it, to consider it, but doesn’t really. Drifting Omega is not the horrible thought it was some time ago. It’s enough knowing that his previous pack is doing well.

They have an unofficial pack meeting, with everyone there. Allison smiles and kisses Derek’s cheek, while Isaac is shaking in his embrace, crying and asking for forgiveness. Which seems excessive to former Alpha, as he can admit, he can see and completely accept the facts and logic behind blonde leaving him alone all those months ago. 

“I love you, Isaac. You could never do anything for me to want to shun you or hate you. Of course, I forgive you, of course. Do you forgive me?” and, yes, this is the place where his own resolve weakens and breaks and he cries right along his former Beta. It seems to cure and mend so many things, this simple companionship of pain, it seems to do so much for his self-doubt and deprecation hearing the boy say: “I forgive you. I love you too.”

And that’s the moment Derek feels he made the right decision of coming back, moment when he feels the family connection strengthen over Alphas, Betas, Omegas, packs and territorial roles. Somehow, he is the father and Isaac is the son and it has nothing to do with them being werewolves.

 

Disconcerting feeling of sensing something wrong in that small meeting doesn’t come as a surprise. They bond, they talk, they re-hash. They snuggle and cry and emotionally break and then glue themselves back together. They somehow go through all the trauma and unfairness suffered together in a short span of hours and somehow they still forget or avoid to mention their current state of lives, feelings and everything else truly, truly important. There is no point healing and getting over the screwed-up past, if they don’t compare it to their marginally better future and present.

The explanation presents itself when Derek, like the creeper he is, of course he can hear Stiles saying it in his brain, of course, when he’s standing close to the window inside boys room one night and the room smells nothing like Stiles. It’s empty of his being, empty of his essence, only lingering scents, fading away and so much misery, Derek almost chokes on it. Sheriff apparently has been sitting in his son’s bed every night, clutching at his belongings, sheets and a piece of paper, scent on it long gone, but words so fucking cutting, so real, it makes him sense something else. The misery, pain, hopelessness, fear deeply weaved into the threads of Stiles pillows, buried behind all other shit that has happened here since he’d left.

Anger so profound, Derek almost loses it. The one person, the one beautiful person of all their lives, humorous, optimistic, with possession of depth rarely inhabited by teenagers, perception so scary it left some breathless, some in awe, some jealous; smarts, intelligence even Lydia Martin respected and appreciated; the one, the most important piece of their pack, the human with undying loyalty, with the otherwise impossible option of being able to leave them amidst of battlefield, untied by pack, by wolf, by magic, by anything, the one rare, fucking precious, one-of-a-kind person who stood by them, who didn’t leave, who sacrificed his instincts, his life to save them, to help them, hold them on to their humanity, slipping away almost every day. The one person with enough darkness in his past, for additional strain to be too much, enough of too much, to be the cause for leaving, running, writing notes and not talking; everything so against his nature – It was heart-breaking.

It explained so much about this glum grimness and closed-off hearts. It explained the guilt in everyone’s stares. Of course, no one noticed, battling their own problems, Stiles, as usual, masking his distress, not daring to add one more drop to the glass. Leaving was easy, leaving made everyone else get on with their lives and make better from them, leaving made the guilt, but this guilt drove everyone forward as if getting ready to be better, to be excellent, to be there, healthy, together for when Stiles came back.

If he ever did. If he wasn’t so lost in that darkness; if it hadn’t chocked him, alone, lost, lonely, under-appreciated, somewhere on an impersonal side of the road.

 

** …↨≈↨≈↨… **

****

There is nothing in the world cuter than children running around the park barefoot. They still have enough time to speak their words and voice their thoughts and to swim in the vast rivers of sun, unconcerned, knowing nothing about anything.

It seems so unfair that they eventually grow up, with their feet dressed in high-heels or boots, bodies hidden in coats, some weird wisdom tracing their faces in small lines, the smallness of planet Earth now so clear, uneventful, even disappointing, songs and carelessness completely forgotten.

He tells as much to Lydia, sitting next to him on a park bench, eating an ice-cream, and adding: “We should throw shoes at grown-ups and spare only those who smile _carefreely_ or hum or sing.” He says so seriously, eyes twinkling in mischief.

“I am not throwing my $200 shoes at grown-ups, Stiles.” She is openly smiling and her scolding tone doesn’t affect him in the least. It doesn’t help that ice-cream in her hands makes her look years younger.

“I should throw a shoe at you. You are just as hopeless.”

Lydia knows he is teasing her, but she likes these banters, where they usually end up with them and pretends to get angry. “Are you saying I am just as bland and boring and grey as these plebeians!? I deserve shoes being thrown at me?”

“Of course, that’s exactly what I am saying, Lydia. Exactly.” Stiles voice drips with sarcasm, but his face is beaming in a small, private smile. “Imagine, all those designers throwing their priceless shoes at you, just so they can bring out your colourful and deserving beauty back to this world! Imagine!”

Lydia laughs and throws a scoop of ice-cream at Stiles and the motion is so practised and so chaotic, so routine between them, throwing edible things or what else, it takes none of them by surprise that he catches the flying strawberry-blueberry blend on tongue and looks disgustingly pleased with himself. “I think we should re-enforce the punishment for being too adult and too serious right away as I need new shoes.” She adds, shaking her head.

“Pffft! You are doing it again! I wanted us to throw things at people or run barefoot at the very least as a conclusion of this conversation, but, once again, Lydia Martin, you turn it around in the most boring way possible.” Stiles huffs and puffs and mutters annoyingly until she has no choice but to give in.

“Okay, running barefoot it is.”

“You agreed too easily. What’s the ploy, Miss Overlord?” Stiles doesn’t even bother to look suspicious, tone casual, facial expression still slightly annoyed, but fond.

“Tell you what, Mr. Annoying Pattern, I will run around park like a fucking lunatic, barefoot, I will hose you with the water spray, I will make you flail and be all ecstatic about your life and then, then, imagine this, I will throw breadcrumbs at people who should improve their facial impressions and fashion choices, I will even laugh _carefreely_ , not _evilly_ …” Lydia lets that sink in, watching as Stiles gets equal parts excited and equal parts more suspicious. “In return I ask for you to meet one person of my choice and give them a chance.”

They both clearly know how Stiles thinks by now. He would never turn down a chance to completely embarrass both of them during bright, sunny day and he would totally hate meeting anyone, but let her sink into a false sense of security and turning the date down after the first few minutes or making such an asshole of himself so the date leaves. It’s a pattern. It’s a routine. They both love it and hate it and wouldn’t take anything in the whole wide world to give this up. Of course, it’s not always breadcrumbs and barefoot running, but it’s always something that makes society question their sanity or age. Mostly when he and Lydia get together during the day time, it’s an unspoken agreement to do something silly and just let go of life. During the night time they still enjoy themselves, but then it’s allowed to get serious and emotional and very personal. The stories that come out of Stiles dating patterns are the best, but she’ll never tell. Probably, because he already knows.

“Okay, I agree to those terms.”

“The usual spot?”

“The usual, yes.”

“You are fondly pathetic.”

“You are terrifyingly fond.”

It was their code for ‘I love you, never leave me or I’ll be very lost, swallowed by darkness’. It was nice and very real and frightening in a raw way children were always scared of lights going off at night.

 

** …↨≈↨≈↨… **

 

Bartending was not all glorious, but it was pretty fucking amazing. It wasn’t the first choice of a job he could do when adrift, but it was an evenly matched choice for his needs, as it turned out. He could talk and get some stories out, marvel and remember, wash away the mould and rot from the good memories he could still bear to recall. He could get new stories from strangers and be reminded of a simple fact of his life not being as bad as it seemed. Yes, there was the big, bad darkness around his heart and sometimes Stiles felt like he was going down, swirling out of control, but, really, that’s all really metaphorical and philosophical and magical. It could be dealt with. Not easily, but it could be put away, not as distracting and all-consuming. Some people at his bar didn’t have that luxury. Their lives were fucked up, debts, broken hearts, lost family, lost everything, alcoholism, drug abuse, abuse; the list, as always, went on and on and on. Some required only getting themselves better, just like Stiles had to, and some just needed a miracle or stroke of luck which, realistically, wasn’t coming.

There were some regulars he was pleased, relieved to see at their typical time windows, because Stiles knew, deep in his gut, that one day they won’t show up and it’ll be because of terrible, horrifying reasons, not sunshine and flowers reasons.

Such was life and, ironically, bar being a place where people _thought_ they were coming to have some fun, was actually place where it was plainly visible how life mistreated everyone. Granted, it’s a bit depressing, thinking like that, but it did the opposite for Stiles, because it grounded him. Rooted him. He’d become the bartender-counsellor and took the self-appointed role seriously, trying to help out the most severe cases immediately, sometimes seeking favours of fortunate people he knew from working here and trying to soothe the easy or horrible ones by support, humour and general listening skills.

It was perfect; he didn’t have to think about himself. He didn’t have to attach or give meaning to any of the encounters, because this was a bar and he was an employee and all the mistakes he made here added nothing to the seemingly apocalyptic outside world. Darkness didn’t have anything to latch onto or ruin and Stiles was happy with that.

Lydia had come to his life unexpectedly, but not surprisingly as she was, in fact, yes, really!, smart. Finding him probably was like brushing teeth in the morning for her. At first he was afraid of all the nightmares that will fallow, all the familiarity of her and the memories they had together, but it actually had the opposite effect. It rattled him, sure, and found him sweaty and afraid during nights, but it also helped that he had an unsullied memory foundation to grab onto now, away from everything, from which he could wash and clean and get sorted neatly all the things they shared. Lydia helped, understanding like no one else. They’d talked a lot. Endless hours, sorting out all the details and sorting out all the feelings, anchoring each other, because she wasn’t right either. She needed to know, she needed knowledge and he was there to offer it, simply giving her all the support needed, clearing away the confusion.

Lately, he had been entertaining a thought of slowly returning everyone else in his life, but it seemed like too much hassle. Yes, a stupid excuse, but valid. Stiles didn’t feel like he could deal with more than one person at the time. If the wind caught scent or whatever, all of them would be here loud and demanding in a second. He’d asked Lydia, she conformed he was not delusional, confirmed that everyone there was smothering each other and not letting go. He understood that, respected that even, but, as empirically proven, that method didn’t work for him. Didn’t cure his particular brand of crazy.

Hearing a gruff voice ordering a glass of water, fallowing all of those life lessons and conclusions, didn’t startle him, didn’t make him jump three feet in the air. He just turned around and smiled, presenting the order politely. If there was one person who would know, who would understand the importance of privacy, taking things back to a better place in a snail pace, it was Derek.

Lydia, was, in fact, genius. Even if there hadn’t been a promise to behave, he would’ve, because he had no intentions doing otherwise.

“Hey, Sourwolf.”

 

** …↨≈↨≈↨… **

 

“Hey, Sourwolf.”

He didn’t even have the decency to look annoyed or broken or devastated. He looked happy and grown-up, like leaving home for a few months and struggling through life alone was enough to make all the difference. Enough of a difference it made Derek feel fucking _silly_ for being here. Wasn’t he here like a knight in shining armour to help Stiles? To make him feel less alone, less lost in life? Hadn’t he rushed to get all the affairs in order back in Beacon _ffing_ Hills, just so he could come searching and start showing how appreciative he was? Everyone was? Doing bullet point presentations of all the reasons they needed him back, safe, at home, brining life to that colourless place?

He had. He had. And carefully looking at Stiles, assessing him, noticing the little things he never, never did, being too busy being a dick or dying or being saved by this very young man in front of him, he finally saw it. Fucking finally. Those small differences he could remember from the boy who he saw just _just_ when Scott was bitten and the boy who was standing in front of him. Of course, no, he hadn’t really cured the darkness, becoming a nice, happy part of society. It made no sense. If that would be the case, he would have been back with his dad and friends and pack in no time. Derek wouldn’t have to be here. Stiles had just become a very good actor. Or something. Time to find out, anyway. Too much staring was apparently making Stiles grin broader and broader as if Derek was making a comedic stand-up just for him.

“Hey.” He paused. Too short, this needed more words. He needed to show that things were changing, no matter how small or how slow. “You look good.” That wasn’t a lie, no matter what or how black and dreary was everything inside that amber-eyed body, his appearance and stance really did look good. Something else as well. He didn’t want to go there. Not yet, anyway.

“You too. Look good, I mean. As always.” In any other situation this would’ve sounded as rambling mess of a sentence. Here it sounded confident, like Stiles was re-assessing all the facts and re-discovering the well-known truths. And it sounded like the boy was basically forcing to appear a bit like his old self. That reminded Derek of all the anger he had felt standing in Stiles bedroom.

Derek went for broke. “I am not used to having a normal conversation with you. This is unsettling.” He confessed and was pleased to hear a pause in Stiles heartbeat, a prophecy for when he burst out laughing. Several customers looked at them, interested in the spectacle. As if Stiles would never laugh as hard or as openly as he did now. Maybe he never did. Maybe these people were just noisy and didn’t know anything. He hoped for the latter.

“True. We haven’t had those ever, I think.” Wiping tears from his eyes, Stiles looked at him, smiling. It didn’t seem fake, but Derek couldn’t tell. It was unsettling, to say the least.  “At this rate, we will never have them, you know. We are discussing the fact that we don’t have normal conversations. It’s not normal.”

“It’s not.” I wasn’t. Needless to say, probably they’ll never have a normal conversation. “It’s pleasant anyway. To talk to you with no imminent threat to our lives, even if it’s not normal.” Derek had practised with Isaac. He had. He had practised to be open and to say things that would get them going away from their routine screaming, threat spewing matches. He wasn’t an Alpha, this wasn’t about some crisis, politics or their usual arguing. This was an attempt to help, mainly Stiles. Derek felt that it would help him too.

“It is?” Stiles looked genuinely surprised, the idiot. He couldn’t blame him as they had never talked, never really shown interest in each other, only saving lives and responding to situations at hand.

“I am guessing. Probably, a guy who could dive in head-first in all the… _Drama_ , help save lives and come out in one piece, is a smart person with capability of having pleasant conversations, don’t you think?" Shit, he was doing something very similar to flirting. It wasn’t intentional, it wasn’t _like that_ , it just was the simple matter of Derek not knowing _how_ to talk to anyone who wasn’t family, a fuck, a threat or annoying. Because several months ago all those teenagers had been something between family and annoying. Polite conversations with strangers didn’t really count as talking. Talking he wanted to have, anyway.

“Wow.” Stiles was fucking blushing. Of course. Because this was Derek’s life. “Thanks. I could probably say that under all that _tragedy_ and issues and grumpiness, possibly is a great conversationalist, but I feel like that would be insensitive. Or rude. Or rudely insensitive. Plus, I am not really convinced capability like that exists in you. So I am not returning the speculation.”

“Thank you for not saying it.” Derek was smiling, despite himself. What? It was true, anyway. There had been no basis on which to found assumption like that, and he was grateful about Stiles honesty.

“No problem.” He shyly scratched his neck and looked up at Derek with surprising fondness. Like, he, Stiles, was surprised that he is feeling fond. It was weird to watch. “It is weird to watch you smile. With no evil intentions or to prove an evil point. Unless you are here for that, then everything is like it should be.”

“It’s a genuine smile. Savour it.” Derek proved a point by smiling some more. His face felt stupid, but expression on other man’s face was so worth it. “And no, I am not here for that. No cruel intentions.”

“Are you trying to appeal on my love of pop-culture references or did you really just do a bet on me to use me and then fall in love with me and now just trying to throw me off the suspicion?” Stiles _literally_ gaped. Mouth hanging open in a perfect ‘O’.

“Which explanation suits you better, take it. Or both.” Derek felt positively _gleeful_. He should have tried joking or yanking someone’s chain in a positive way _years_ ago.

“Shit, it’s fucking unsettling seeing you smile and joke and being all…” _Flirty?_ “Whatever.” Of course, eloquent, Stiles, really. _Whatever_. Although, if he wasn’t in a such a _teasing_ mood, which was something new and alien, he would’ve agreed. This was Derek being _whatever_ , because he definitely didn’t know how to define it himself.

“Whatever?” But he had to, had to. This was something foreign like _fun_.

“Shut up.” Stiles was frustrated, flushed, surprised, pleased, aroused, all at once. He felt proud. Isaac will give him a “world’s best dad” mug.

“Honestly, I though it will take us shorter time to come to the classic “shut up.”” Two mugs.

“OMG, SHUT UP!” Stiles was laughing again, real, unfaked, no act, he was sure of it, and Derek wanted nothing more, nothing more than to help this boy find what he had lost. And later, maybe, if it still was there, make that scent of arousal into something more, something just for the two of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetae'd.  
> TBC.
> 
> Comments welcome. Thank you for reading and not killing me after. Hopefully.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disturbing things lurk here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is darkness, torture, nightmares, frostwork, manipulations, dark eyes, power and sick, sick writing, angst. In all seriousness, beware.  
> I have no idea how to tag this. If you have suggestions, tell me.
> 
> Scream at me.  
> Ignore this, ignore it. Run.  
> Run.

He’s gone. So absolutely gone.

“Stiles.” It’s not a question, not a plea and certainly not a show of concern. Derek stomps down the terror, stomps down fear, never so clear, never as petrifyingly clear as in this moment. Never has he been so frightened like this.

Stiles just looks at him. Cocks his head on the side and smiles. Slow, mean. He reads every line as if he has studied Derek while he wasn’t aware of it.

“I am not gone.” He didn’t say it out loud, Derek is sure of it. But Stiles read it anyway. Fucking read him like a predictable book, not a werewolf with The Big Mysterious Issues. “This is me. I wanted you to see this. I wanted you to understand how much shit I have gone through. This is where my end stop is. Arrived at my destination. No longer a clueless teenager, no longer an innocent. This is me.” And, fuck it, his voice doesn’t break, doesn’t waver, heartbeat steady and eyes cold, cold and dark and maybe a bit empty, but the edges of expression softened somehow. Derek sits down on the couch, legs no longer able to take all the emotional turmoil. First time in years, _years_ , he puts down his head between knees and _breathes_. Slow, steady, chest clutching in, vibrating from all the realisations. This is Stiles.

Stiles flicks the safety on, lowers the gun and places it on a counter nearby, not close enough for either of them to reach. Touches the top of Derek’s head and sighs.

“Yeah.” _I am no longer the man you knew_ goes unsaid.

 

** …↨≈↨≈↨… **

It smells like rusty coins in the morning. At first seems like he has gone out and gotten laid by a girl with a period. Yes, that’s his life right now. He doesn’t wake with terror about that particular smell, because there hasn’t been any need to keep those instincts up while living in a big city and avoiding everything, anything supernatural. Basically, he wakes up like a normal young man would, in a normal life, in a normal set up of destiny.

That’s why Stiles suddenly remembers how much he’d hated waking up in Beacon Hills. Utter helplessness and vague fear arises in the wake of the morning, once he understands – it’s blood. Not a period blood, not a paper cut, not a drunken misunderstanding. Blood, a lot of it. All over sheets and bed and even on the floor. Not his. Definitely not his.

Sheets get bleached and washed, floor and bed cleaned up, himself scrubbed off raw. No illusions. None. Stiles knows what it is. First time in months, he traces the blood, traces the magic and finds a murdered wolf breed three blocks over. Torn open, human hands, a big mess. Catalogues it and moves on.

At night he can’t sleep. It feels like his canines are growing, nails shifting into claws. Nothing really happens, nothing ever does, but it feels like it will. It feels like a wolf has slipped into his body and is trying to rip himself out of Stiles, to go and murder, bathe in blood, all the usual monster shit. He sits and psychoanalyses himself _This is not real; You are being ridiculous, You are projecting; It’s the darkness; You probably didn’t do it; You probably wanted to help the dog and arrived to all the wrong conclusions_. Yeah, that’s it. That’s logical.

He sleeps better.

Until he doesn’t.

Until he startles awake, heavily breathing, rapid air intake, in the middle of an ally, blood all over his fingers, palms, elbows, holding a dead cat, in a strangling hold and only the sudden terror and confusion keeps him from ripping its limp head of its shoulders. Detaching one body part from another. He feels the impulse there, he feels the moment, feels the fresh scent of _want_ in the air.

He looks around and stops kidding himself. Darkness, dear darkness of mine, you will take what you will.

Lydia is fucking horror-struck when he tells her. She’s trying to hide it, but fails. Stiles understands, doesn’t comment and waits for her to fucking shoot him or poison him or whatever. Just end this, end this horror story, because this is just the prologue, just the first few episodes and it will get worse from here, it will. He knows, doesn’t need a psychic to predict it.

Instead, she surprises him. “It wants you to do something dark. It’s either taking away all your happy memories and making all interactions with people turn into an alley of misery and nightmares or it’s you killing small animals and going insane, because you can’t forgive yourself.” Logical conclusion. As if dealing with a problem like this comes more naturally than dealing with the new fashion choices and colour of nailpolish matching the outfit. Maybe it is, maybe, after Peter, life in its normalcy doesn’t make sense to Lydia. But this does.

She makes him go hunting. Buys the licence, helps with the exam, everything. Even comes with. Unfortunately, Stiles has no illusions anymore. Yes, this is easier, less messy, more thrilling, sometimes, when he forgets, lets the game and chase take over, but there are no delusions anymore. Killing with a gun, in a special hunting area and giving away the meat to the needy, it’s all fucking bullshit. It’s no different than gutting a cat with a pocket knife, wringing its neck and almost tearing the head off. More justifiable, yes, but not much better. Fucking, fucked up humanity, with its many, many grey, grey lines.

The hold on his heart eases. Lydia says it’s because he hates it, doesn’t like it, sometimes still can’t sleep because of it. Darkness is satisfied. Life is miserable in just the right level for it to leave Stiles alone.

He looks in the mirror and doesn’t like what it shows. Lydia smooths out the lines of a frown on his face, when she catches him staring and smiles. He notices it then, in her face, but can’t quite explain what it is exactly.

He’ll think about it tomorrow.

 

** …↨≈↨≈↨… **

 

The spiral of nightmares seems never ending and he wakes up with one word on his lips, trembling and clutching Lydia, who has taken to sleeping next to him, anchoring on her, shaking, crying and _no no no_. Endless streams of _no_.

_Do you hear it? How it clangs, so unlike the sound of money hitting a different metal. This is me, scratching currency of your soul against my innards, against my cold metal breath. I won’t have any compromises; there won’t be any to find, to walk around. I will break you. I will make you go through it alone, useless, licking your bruises, begging for me to stop. It’ll feel as if it’ll never end. It will, someday, it will, when I have gotten my price, gotten my share. This is not the end, not the end. All you have to do is give in, succumb and there, there, do you see it? Then there will be the final Fin the final point, final punctuation mark for this story. Come to me, be me, have me, accept me. Fin. The end. Do it._

_Don’t you want to heal?_

“NO!”

_No?_

_We’ll eat you up, lick your skin like candy, fuck your brains out and this will not be a corny romance novel, but screaming terror reality, we’ll do everything we promised to the syllable, to the word… Dig our way to your heart and cook it, savour it, taste it while it’s still beating._

_Don’t you want to heal?_

“NO!”

 _Skin, bit by bit, staring from your cock, flayed, with sharp knives, hot water, cooking and frying, slowly. After harvesting all the precious bits and pieces of you, we’ll give them to an off-road diner cook, include it in the menu as a new special and we’ll let a small, young, naïve girl eat you with potatoes and gravy. After the meal, smiling with nice, white child’s teeth, she’ll smile and thank the Lord for delicious meal. Her eyes will burn with faith and longing, but all she’ll see is you chained, tortured by nail and blackboard screeching sounds, all she’ll see is how you have killed and maimed countless innocents, her favourite bunny, her favourite werewolf friend, she’ll see it all and she’ll have no illusions about the monstrosity of who you really are, a small, young child will think, will believe so strongly, that you_ deserve _all this. Your penance._

_Don’t you want this to end?_

“No!”

_Our next stop will be a flesh market. Rich patrons will love you, skinless, they will desire your muscles and skin and intestines, they’ll want to prod them and touch them and coo in satisfaction, buying you bit by bit. Every person you have ever loved will be there. He’ll buy your heart and smile joyously, because that’s the only way he can have it, untouched, his alone. You will be his, he won’t be yours. Scattered among universe, parallel realities, alive and screaming in agony, feeling every bough bit of you being used as a replacement for someone else’s imperfections._

_Don’t you want to be whole?_

“No.”

_Someone will use your skull as a drinking cup._

_Someone will scrub your bones clean and crush them for medicine and cheap narcotics._

_Someone will end the last of your consciousness._

_But you’ll still have the darkness with you. It’s not going away, no matter how far we get in destroying you._

_You are mine. You are ours._

_Don’t you want to belong?_

For once, he wakes up and doesn’t say anything. He’s just a small, simple entity. World is huge, universe is bigger, vast, never ending. What’s it going to change if one, insignificant person gives in and succumbs to forces unimaginable? Is it going to tip the scales? He knows the answer. Nothing’s going to change. What’s some suffering somewhere deep inside his mind for the sake of sanity and greater good? Nothing, nothing. Small, unmentionable sacrifice.

 

It all becomes very clear one evening. There is a robbery on the street and Stiles is not afraid. He has faced worse, crazier, more insane, seen more intent on killing than this man holding a gun on some innocent woman. So he steps in, takes the gun away and points at the man. On instinct, on some deep drive, on some pull in his heart, he goes with it, unchecks the safety, one evil thieve less would be the result and

Lydia steps in front of the gun, smiling at him. Unafraid. Understanding. He sees the look in her eyes and he knows, recognises it now. Reads it like poetry. “No, Stiles.” He lovers the gun, but keeps it.

I accept. I succumb.

 

** …↨≈↨≈↨… **

 

Blah, blah, blah. That’s how murmur of background goes. While Stiles catches up, laughing with Derek, serving other customers at bar absentminded. It feels far away, he feels daring. This new Derek makes jokes, is observant, even kind of flirts, doesn’t even seem to realize he is doing it. Stiles can see the worried gaze, can see motives under former Alphas skin. Such power comes with being on the other side of the line. World seems more clear, more crystal, less bullshit, every line so stark, details hard to miss, Planet Earth has laid its heart out to Stiles and he sees everything. It’s exuberating. For all the vigilance Derek exhumes, werewolf is completely oblivious to way he slips small packages with drinks and snack orders, oblivious to the way some men and women leer at him, pass on their numbers with invitations so very forward. Not sex, not love, not dates, something more dangerous and more consuming.

Stiles smiles and Derek smiles back. Stiles touches and Derek seems to go lost in the sudden wave of emotions. This is better than being a werewolf. This is so much better. Power. Total lack of identity. No, not the bad kind. Forgoing the most important and celebrated part of humanity sometimes, in here, in jobs like this, in friendships and acquaintances like theirs, is very lucrative. He can manipulate, hide truths, change personality, get lost in the con. And just when it gets suspicious, just when that small line seems to reach its limits for those who actually have taken the time to know him, that’s when the identity comes back, Stiles staggers, babbles, laughs and breaks a glass, people around him relaxing, sinking into a sense of false security.

The greatest feeling comes when Annie replaces him at the bar and he steps onto the stage, shyly smiling in Derek’s direction. There are set of historic looking drums, ones they use in Japan, ones they use in folk festivals, not on rock stages or pop-concerts. Stiles loses the shirt, ravels when throats close, go dry, arousal spikes in the air. Ravels in the way his arm muscles and black undershirt makes everyone go crazy. He embraces the darkness, cuddles it like an old friend, waves in the greeting to the crowd, while really he is waving to the black shadows crowding layered dimensional corners where anything could hide its sunken nature.

Drumsticks feel familiar, buzz with energy, hidden, open only to him. This relationship is a compromise. Sometimes he goes out to hunt. Sometimes he does questionable things in the sake of making world just a drop darker. But no one dies by his hand, Stiles doesn’t have nightmares and sometimes he gets a night like this where his dark, dark heart allows him to play drums and vibrate the air with uneasy, lustful basic human instincts, makes audience go wild and raw. If, one day, his penance is paid, finished, Stiles will love and thank the higher powers that have shown him how to play drums in a way that makes everyone forget time, space and get lost in the hub where all human ideas and sensations go.

In the wave of emotions he receives from all of those around him, lost in his power and ability to drum the drums in an archaic, ancient, transient way, Stiles sees what all of them fear. They fear of being insignificant. They fear being the puppets of a puppeteer. But here he is, the man with the master plan. A boy, ripped from innocence, drowned, accepted by the darkness, has the master plan of all their lives, he holds the threads. Yes, Stiles in still not graced by the fantastic relief of ignorance, he knows that a darker, prominent power is the one that gives him this ability to plan, to see patterns more clearly, he knows he is a pawn, just like all of them. The difference is, he knows the plan, knows the place, knows his abilities, knows his reach, knows the dangers, has lived them and survived. Here, it’s more potent, more giving. Can be used to his own advantage.

Stiles plays with his eyes closed, because he knows, he feels the energy, his eyes are black, irises blown, full with obsidian, tangy feel of inevitability. Only Lydia gets to see it. Only a mirror gets to see it.

 

“You were absolutely amazing.” Derek laughs and his eyes or so very honest and open, Stiles laughs too.

“Yeah, who knew, right?” Jokes, jokes make people more easy. Jokes make the old Stiles more familiar and Derek is drunk on him. There was no regret of not lacing his water with wolfsbane, because it’s unnecessary. Lust makes people drunker than any alcohol, _want_ makes people so easy. Stiles laughs. His eyes are dark, so he keeps them closed and buries his nose in Derek’s neck, breathes in, in a very wolfy fashion.

That’s when mistakes are made. That’s when Stiles forgets that his broken goodness of a headlamp has been lighting a way to Dark. That’s when frostwork blooms in windows around them, in the middle of summer and everyone’s favourite werewolf falters and shakes Stiles in panic.

They look around themselves and there is nothing more there left than to explain.

“I have changed.” _Not, yet, not yet, you don’t get to see the savage I have become_. He doesn’t look at Derek, doesn’t even dare.

“Show me. Stiles.” Derek is still panicking. “Show me.” And somehow, somehow his eyes are back to normal, his eyes are amber and seems to relax the older man. Only if for a little time, only for a little time, he’ll take it.

“Fallow me.” He takes the bigger palm in his and leads the way. Seems like he never wants to let go, seems like this is where his palms fit, where all the questions are answered, but Stiles doesn’t believe in miracles. Doesn’t look for them. Brushes them off, unthinkable.

 

** …↨≈↨≈↨… **

 

Evening seems to be going so fantastically _right_ , so easy, it surprises Derek. He lets himself enjoy it, but doesn’t relax. Instinct or something else makes him suspicious, even when there, so obviously, is nothing to be suspicious of. Stiles is still _Stiles_. More confident, more easy on the eyes, grown into his own skin, mischievous glint in the eye, leaving no doubt about the fact that they are going to go home and end up sleeping in the same bed.

Magnificent hands, young, strong hands, holding him up in the pool, driving a car, making literal magic happen, hours or research; nothing of that compares to those same arms, shoulders moving together in a pattern of making the drums _sing_. Stiles has thrown his head back, eyes closed, filling the bar with a rhythm, play of muscles, air of fascination around, in every being, every cell of skin. None of these people stand a chance, and Derek realizes – he’s not the exception. Want intensified, control barely there. He wants to take, escape, hide away and claim. Usually he is not like that, not even close. Usually wolf and human are balanced, barely a line between the two, as he has grown up all this horrible, sometimes amazing, life being both. In sync, in harmony. Here, in the beat of drums, in a beat of Stiles pulse and his sudden power surging around him, here wolf comes out to play, more prominent, more insistent. Demands something never before imagined.

Derek gives in.

It all could be written off as foreplay, the way they interact after, in the way the stumble and laugh and fall, making their way to the closest shelter of bed and clear intentions. It’s all happening too fast for his liking, thought of slowing down, of finding out all of the boys secrets lost somewhere he can’t reach and get a grip back on the intent. The road to hell is very, very painfully and comprehensibly pawed by good intentions. _Pawed_. He snorts, then startles, not speaking out, not telling the joke, not making Stiles laugh with him, as the air becomes cold and there is frost on the windows which wasn’t there before.

He should’ve known better. Nothing in his life comes easy, nothing in his life makes sense when humans are involved.

That’s when Stiles takes him along and shows, doesn’t hide the black, charred look in his beautiful eyes, that’s when he points the gun between his eyes. No confidence lost, his hand sure and powerful, new level gained. That’s how Stiles has passed for normal, that’s how he has coped with all this shit. By unlocking a new plane of reality for himself.

When panic fades, when he gets it together, old age, goddammit, he can handle this, he can battle this.

“Sometimes I felt like the wolf inside me is crawling his way out.” The boy laughs, harsh, unforgiving, bitter. “There is no wolf inside me, Derek. No wolf. I took a lesson out of Beacon Hills book. I accepted what’s inside me, accepted it as a gift.”

It makes perfect sense, perfect sense. Stiles has known only werewolves, they are his only comparison, only supernatural outlet. It’s the logical thing to do. Associate himself with something that threads the lines, always dark, always somewhere hiding, running, plotting and surviving. Something Stiles knows all the details of. A wolf. His darkness is to be a wolf subconsciously, consciously, in all the ways that matter. Only a thread, small, withering thread, keeping him from going feral whole still staying so painfully human.

He flinches away from Derek’s touch, although he allows himself to touch Derek. It’s okay. He can handle this, he has been there.

“You haven’t killed anyone.”

“There is no excuse for me, human, _human-_ ” as if it’s a curse, word spit out from depths sullied “to mutilate dogs, cats, deer and all the _insignificant_ game. I am not an animal. Not yet. I took the intelligent, the sane way out, Derek. What else is there?” That’s when Derek sees it. The wait for him to reject Stiles, to wave a hand and dismiss him as something unfixable. A mutilated kitten. Fuck, these hundred fifty pounds of wet, too smart to go further, too smart to test the limits, have stopped at that. Have drawn the line and taken the logical path, so it doesn’t end in human pain, loss and death. Admirable. Derek wishes he had the self-control to do that all those years ago. He wishes he still was in that place where he regretted it, wallowed in it, driven by guilt. But it has passed, Stiles can do it too.

“I almost killed Lydia. I didn’t because I recognized the darkness in her eyes.” Derek understands. Lydia is the line. Anyone else would’ve just pushed and pushed, serial, unstoppable. Only loved ones, only the ones who are worthy enough of boys empathy get to stay alive when control brakes. It’s always reading between unsaid.

He shakes his head, clutches Stiles in an easy embrace.

“I am here, Stiles. Once you cross the line, there is no comparing. There's just that side of the line." He lets that sink in, he lets that take its course. “Let me help you deal with this. Let me show you what I’ve learned.”

And that’s how they pack, hurried, fingers brushing, lips sealed in thin lines. That’s how they leave everything behind and settle in the middle of the woods. There is no paradise, there is just nature taking, cashing in the cost of life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, there is going to be a 3rd chapter. Somehow I need a break from this. Somehow it ended up dark and fucked-up. I don't know. I have never really known the lines.  
> So TBC.  
> Unbetae'd. (see, I can't have betas, I wrote _that_. Who needs _that_? No one. No one.) 
> 
> Please. Should I shut up? Shout at me. Tell me, tell me how horrible I am.  
> Thank you.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the deep, dark forest…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know. Do you know?
> 
> Unbetae'd.

A wigwam stands tall, clumsy, but safe, surrounded by a thick forest growth, not fully mature, refreshingly green and resistant. From distance no one can see its inner circle hiding a home for two very strange men.

It wasn’t there before, built by one set of strong and one set of clever hands, two months ago. They worked together on this, gathering wood, taking measurements with simple, long threads. No metric system, just a lot of approximates. They hunted together, living under the pressing, starlit sky, sleeping in each other’s warmth during colder nights, always close. Processed the skin, readied the meat, used the bones, wrapped themselves in fur. It took two weeks of fortunate weather and many mistakes in learning how to work together, how to be more efficient, less anger, more cooperation. 

Now, a lot of time had passed. At least, that’s how it felt. That’s how many lessons, frustration and routine arguments it took from both of them, to be able to claim being in a place where days went by easy. Easier.

Derek waited. Now their crooked proverbial house on a chicken’s leg looked better. Something from uneasy books, folktales and myths. Something like a wigwam where shaman would live, offering services to those who needed, who deserved them. In nights heavy and never ending Stiles gave up on sleeping, getting up, getting the bowls made from leaves and bark where they kept blood of their hunts, water, various herbs and edibles. Stiles had a system, of course, Stiles had a frightening knowledge of the world around them, knowledge Derek didn’t question.

That’s how their home was painted by symbols, runes, drawings eerily similar from those left in ancient caves.  Painted in blood from their hunts, painted with ash from their hearth mixed with spit, sometimes with a mixture of both. Derek always watched and Stiles never forbid him. In rare, raw moments, never discussed, never acknowledged, they painted together, following the quiet instructions of slender fingers.

Derek waited for the signal. It had been an uneasy peace, uneasy agreement, forced upon and screamed about for long weeks of mistrust. Stiles was the one who went on hunts. Stiles gathered the herbs, searched the forest for more edible things. Derek found water, watched out for intruders, kept them warm, gathered wood, made sure their weird housing arrangement lacked nothing, didn’t fall apart. He was the one who had a touch with outside world, switching on the phone and checking on Isaac and the others regularly. Times of mysterious, quiet disappearance where long past. The younger man was not ready, no one knew all the reasons for his own absence except for Lydia and Isaac. No one knew Stiles was found and healing in a different way along with former Alpha except for those two, who had shown they can be trusted, they can be relied on.

Lydia wasn’t happy. Lydia sometimes sounded sad and angry. Sometimes she sounded like she needed a place like this as well. Derek empathised, but couldn’t afford to extend the invitation, not just yet.

Isaac sounded like he understood in an uneasy and exact manner, always knowing the point and not asking questions some of the others would. Isaac was the only one Derek considered visiting when a break was needed. Younger werewolf refused, each and every time he suggested it. “You need this as much as he does. Don’t. I have Allison. Stiles has you. Keep it that way.”

Signal came, he shifted, searching out the sound, the scent and the heartbeat. It was a big prey, big game. Stiles never called unless he couldn’t keep carrying anymore, exhausted, unwilling. There were rare times when he just wanted to see Derek before, sooner, drop his traps and spear and knives, and just hug the older man, disappear for a moment in his embrace, smell, warmth. That’s when he looked defeated and lost, aware of everything at the same time. He never mentioned it, answered the signal anyway, even knowing he’ll be uncomfortable, seeing Stiles like that. Too much power never did any good to some. Dark power corrupted even the brightest souls of them all.

“Derek.” His smile was infectious, today was not the day for broken embraces and trembling bodies. Today was sunny, with a large moose, gracious even in death, lying next to where Stiles was standing, grinning like a lunatic. Sense of proud, satisfied and content came off in waves and Derek prayed not to drown in them. “Am I not The Provider?” the smug capitalization of words couldn’t be missed in that tone.

“You are getting there.” Enabling never worked well for everyone. In moments like this, when each and every thing seemed perfect, untouchable, Derek strained to remind them both about the fairytale this was not. Maybe one day it will be, but not now. Far from now.

“Nope! I am not letting you! This is a perfect day in a perfect time and we are perfect!” they were not. But when Stiles reached out, interlocking fingers in a way that would be too forceful for mere human and looked at Derek, still smiling, not hiding the look in amber eyes where darkness seemed to fade as the days went by, the illusion of his words shattered around them. Things said out loud were not the things they were both thinking.

Silent acknowledgment of truth, unmasked by actions rather than sounds humans made to lie to each other, was something Derek liked to call progress for both of them. One of many steps in the right direction.

 

** …↨≈↨≈↨… **

_“Let me, please.” So sinful, so tempting._

_“No.” So hard, so firm._

_“Let me!” So demanding, so angry._

_“No.” So resistant, so strong._

_“I want you.” So devious, so sharp._

_Quiet, so silent, so acknowledging._

_“Please.” So dark, so fucked-up. Voice breaking, eyes staying the same open obsidian. Black, bruised, ruining._

_“No.” So resigned, so forgiving. He couldn’t give in. Not even when Stiles snarled, baring his teeth like a wolf in rage, not even when he started undressing, challenging. Not even when he caressed himself, slow, torturous strokes on his body, on his cock. Not even when Derek leaped, closed the distance, savoured the look of triumph in boys eyes, not even when he trapped those long and perfect arms, pinned him down and tied his hands._

_This was all denial. The most daring, most unwanted denial he had ever forced upon himself. Even such a nice, decent thing as covering Stiles nakedness, hardness, arousal with a blanket, angered him. Derek wanted to_ take _and disregard the consequences. Go from there. Fix things from a starting point where they both have given up everything for each other._

_Not true. It sounded like the truth, it made perfect sense, but it wasn’t. Stiles was not Stiles Derek wanted, he was not giving away anything, just wanting to take, to own, to manipulate. Dark eyes didn’t do anything but to reveal all the awful things hidden inside, taking over someone so beautiful and pure. Dark heart, beating differently than the one he knew back in Beacon Hills, wanted to corrupt everything it touched, never leaving, never giving this boy a chance of normal life. Pure hatred in Stiles’ eyes after this refusal was enough to steel Derek, to make his resolve impenetrable._

_“You agreed to my help. This is not help. This is you trying to get out of it.”_

_“Fuck you!”_

_“Stiles. Stop. Look around. Look at what you are doing. You are letting some measly fucking darkness, some hunted game, some psychological thing that’s screwing up your brain,_ you _are letting it control you, make you into something you are not!” Words sounded reasonable enough, but the tone carried unlimited frustration, complete cluelessness, red hot anger._

_“No, I’m making my life into something more! Something touchable. I am not just some clueless lamb for slaughter! I don’t have to kill to reach outlets that let me sleep at night. I accept it. I accept my fucking dual nature. The sides of the coin, all of it. I am in balance!”_

_“You are in denial! My whole family died, because I couldn’t keep it in my pants! My whole family died, because I let the darkness touch me and seduce me and whisper sweet fucking nothings in my ear. It all was so, so good, Stiles.” He’s snarling now. “Her hands on me, her mouth on my cock, her rimming me senseless, letting me fuck her hard and then sweet, learning all the tips and tricks of all the secrets every teenage boy wants to know.” Full stop, take a breath, look into those eyes, look into something he has already seen before. “Yes, she was human, she was touchable. But she still was in my head. Her promises of fantastic life, albeit a little dark and daring, were real. I wanted her, but I wanted my family in my life. She hated it, she took it away. If she could make me mad, brainwash me, make me see nightmares, make me kill innocent creatures and manipulate them without destroying my family, she would have.” Stiles was crying, shaking, struggling. Let him, let him._

_“Now, it has you. Away from everyone who could ever make you see sense and you have given up, you have allowed yourself to be brainwashed and talked into this pathetic, slimy existence, knowing you don’t control anything, but still seeing all the picture and feeling okay for it. Is that it, Stiles? Are you so cheap? Unlimited knowledge of your place in all those fucking blueprints, unlimited knowledge and feeling of everything around you, is that worth more that family, friendship?”_

_“It took me long time to understand, after the fire. Because I really had nothing to go back to, strive for. It took me loosing Laura and Peter, to trust Jennifer, because her touch made me feel alive just so I can be betrayed again, to understand that nothing is worth that particular brand of crazy. Nothing. We both have people to return to. To make amends with. I am not there yet, but I am not far and all I need is someone to ground me in place, to help me make sense of myself. It can’t be none of them. But it can be you, for obvious reasons.” It felt like someone had ripped out the words from him, words he never wanted to repeat, never wanted to remember saying. Too late now, too late to back down from those drowned amber eyes._

_“I can leave you, if nothing of this is getting to you. I can let you go, you can run and do your thing. Or you can stop this bullshit and fix it. With me. Together. No one else to see the disgusting structure of our lives. Just us. Until we can go out and show people things, emotions we have left to sink, never to reach surface, in that sludge. Until we can truly be ourselves in front of people who deserve it.”_

_Stiles looked defeated, wrecked, beaten. He had stopped crying, had stopped the misery flowing out in a storm of emotions. He had collected himself, sitting up from lying down, no treacherous arousal in sight. Somehow more serious, more dangerous than before, as in realising just what he’d let inside him, was enough to understand the importance of it all._

_“Just us.” That wasn’t an agreement, full cooperation. But it offered more than before. Maybe even the dark wanted to transform into light. Maybe even something evil and calculating wanted to be in balance with intelligence and candy-sweet goodness._

_“Yes.” Not now, too soon, but Derek felt – all the injustice in his life was to prepare for this. And that was an A-Okay life mission._

 

** …↨≈↨≈↨… **

 

Of all the free reign Stiles had in the forest, during the day, no matter the weather or temperature, of all the thoughts and plans he caught himself hatching despite how far he’d come, of all those things that tempted the parasite living around his heart, slowly fading and still fighting to keep control, of all of it Stiles still found coming home to Derek the best part of the day. It didn’t matter if they fought or argued that day as he just couldn’t give up on pushing some fragile buttons, it didn’t matter, because it felt safe. It felt like belonging, understanding and acceptance. It felt like a slow burning desire.

Yes, they skinned the animals and gutted them together. Yes, they collected the blood. Yes, it was terrible. But it seemed necessary, it was for survival, for outlet, Stiles hated every second of it and loved it all the same. Derek as a rock beside him, changing in the storms and rain, smoothing down the lines of their flaws, being enough for both of them to achieve that simple, still married with crystalline lines of all the things wrong and uneasy, perfection of life well lived.

There were only two times during the day when Stiles was allowed, given silent permission, to touch Derek. When he came back from a successful or an unsuccessful hunt. When they went to sleep, curled up in worn out blankets, fur and leather, fresh moss beneath them, covering the ground of their wigwam. Home. Third time came rarely. The third time was on those rare nights when he felt the urge, need to outlet the knowledge of all things magical and powerful by drawing. Then he was allowed to guide Derek’s fingers along the walls of the tent. Then he was allowed to use Derek as a canvas and draw out all the good and amazing things he wanted in life. All he touched were werewolf’s fingers, to guide them, but it felt more significant than everything else. Those were the nights when darkness slowly faded out, leaving through blood, ash and spit. He loved those nights the best.

He loved Derek. His unmoving resistance to slow him down, not let him ruin what they had until the healing was over. His obvious want and care, embodied into every conversation, into every moment they shared together. Strength and honesty, despite all the mistakes they had made together and separately.  Willingness to trust Stiles to figure this out, willingness to accept the failures, all of them, learn and move on. The unexpected guidance, wise and always practical, always derived from evidence presented, never judging, never condescending or dismissing.

“Why?”

“You saved my life, unquestioning, even when all you had were the facts of me being a deeply flawed, even evil, being.” Change of their dynamic was clear in the moments like this. It wasn’t Stiles talking, showing all the knowledge there with words and observations. It was Derek. Derek talking, Derek learning to speak what he knew. No words were ever wasted, not really, but it was a change hard to miss, sating Stiles into a strong belief about things changing for him too.

That’s why forest, deep, deep forest, seemed so understandable, so _right_ in this choice. No distractions. Just them, as promised. Nothing artificial, nothing to keep away lessons in life, in survival, in humanity.

At first, it was an argument, changing like the tide. There were moments when Stiles had argued _I should hunt_. There were moments when he argued _You should hunt_. And Derek always argued the opposite, as if baiting him, as challenging, inviting a fight. Looking back, it seemed as the perfect first outlet. To argue. To be angry, to hate, to frustrate, to plan and fail all the ways in which he would hurt the werewolf. It never worked. Until it did. Wasn’t how these things always ended up for Stiles? Ignorance, forgetfulness, no medicine, no help needed, no conversations required, just screams and curses and a sudden piece, sudden acceptance and letting go. Artificial, so very fake.

_“Okay. Okay. Fuck you. Lets hunt together. You know, just us. All that ‘working together’ thing. Lets do that.”_

_“Why should I agree? You are just a human, you will slow me down.”_

_“Because I am tired of these arguments. Because I want to make this work.” Seriously. Derek was such a fucking asshole. Infuriating. To be dealt with._

_“Allright. If you want to.” Asshole, asshole, asshole._

_Meticulous, that’s what it was. Perfection, taking your time and knowing how this is going to end. Stiles was okay with that. There were terms, he accepted them. He was tired of sleeping on the forest floor, tired of clutching Derek like a lifeline, tired of nightmares he always was gently woken up from and soothed with gentle care, touch and nonsense words. He was tired seeing enemies in every shadow, tired of finding himself, raw and broken and powerful staring back from those shadows, waiting._

_He wanted back, wanted to live in a nameless city and screw people over. Wanted to feel that rush of power and crystal clear awareness of things to come. He wanted to be back in his place, puzzle peace fitting in the fucking Black Cube. Stiles wanted that, needed it like air, like food, like water. All this bullshit with Derek was a nice distraction, a nice fucking fantasy. Time to give it up and wake up knowing Santa and Ester Bunny and all that, all of it, is not real. Just like Derek fucking him, just like Derek giving into demands. That man was a rock, stubborn, standing in one place, boring and dreary. Fuck that._

_The imperative of his plan was to finish the wigwam. The perfect resting place, the perfect contribution for nice sentiments and a gold star for effort. It wasn’t a home, it definitely won’t be his prison for God knows how long. Wolfsbane in the forest, hiding beneath lower branches, was a click of a lightbulb, a sign of everything going according to a master plan. While hunting Derek trusted him enough to accidentally reveal the approximate place of their cars, concealed masterfully. There was nothing holding him back, except for the gravestone he needed to build. Tradition was important and this particular werewolf deserved a nice memoriam._

_So surprising, the completely bored and disappointed and unimpressed look on Derek’s face, when Stiles stabbed him after settling in each other’s arms on the day they finished the tent. Stabbed, twisted from stomach up, right until the heart. The knife was laced with wolfsbane, should be enough. But the look… It made him pause before reaching set goal._

_Derek gripped his hand and pressed deeper, something human hands couldn’t manage. “Here, I’ll help you. A few inches until the heart. Press deeper, Stiles, it won’t work otherwise.” There was no forgiveness in his eyes, nothing sad or broken. Determination even, to die, to finally rest and leave the world which kept mistreating someone so…_

_Stiles paused the thought, pressed the knife in and up, getting away as soon as the motion was finished. Really, he didn’t care if Derek was dead, the plant would kill him soon anyway. There were no things to take or to worry about, so he ran to the car, scrambled for keys, wiping the blood against the grass. A beautiful place to die._

_A beautiful place to live and fall in love in._

_Somehow then, it seemed, someone whispered a well-kept secret to a broken boy, wiping the blood away, clutching keys to his escape from salvation. The secret itself – a very uncomplicated truth. This, this creature he’d become, was not Stiles. Essentially, it possessed enough intelligence and personality to fake and convince Stiles “Yes, this is you, deep down. Now, you have accepted it and this is who you are, full-time”. But it was not him._

_Until this very moment, when the only person he now knew, who could stand by him and be worthy of all the effort, of all the good things happening, when this person had chosen Stiles, the real Stiles, as someone he could be with, someone to become better with, when this person was dying from injury inflicted by these very own bloody fingers, he felt that he hadn’t been real for months. Painfully, painfully, this feeling was fading away, the secret was being buried by the assault of the fake and the untrue, returning to the falseness of being, emptying the soul of meaning, drive away the need to live fully and happily. Stiles pushed it away. Revoked his acceptance. Banished it, came terms with it and ran. Ran again, in a different direction, back to Derek._

_Along the way he remembered to collect the wolfsbane and return, clutching it, panicking. Vision blurred, hyperventilation kicking in, the reality knocking, he kept it away, fought against it. There was no time for this, no time at all, he needed get to a person, a human, a wolf, seemingly put on this world just to remind Stiles of who he is. He couldn’t waste that. Couldn’t throw it away._

_Derek was sitting where he left him, completely healed, stoic. Even with all of this happening, Stiles was not dumb, was not mentally inclined. He had been blind, planning and plotting, too busy being someone he was really not, to notice that forest had no distractions, forest didn’t present the opportunity of surprise assault of schemes. Only traps and hunting worked. Deviousness didn’t really belong here manifested by something else. He’d been blind and didn’t notice Derek watching, knowing and waiting. He’d been utterly lost, while Derek still treated him the same, treated him as if he wasn’t planning a murder._

_He leaped unto Derek. Embraced him and didn’t let go, letting the first real experience in months to rattle and shake him, panic attack as the vulnerability he was willing to present, willing to show as a declaration of things changed. Derek loosened Stiles’  fingers, clutching in fists, not really seeking the comfort he didn’t feel he deserved. Derek loosened them and laid Stiles’ palms against him, showing that caressing and touching here and now, that was okay. In the knowledge of forgiveness being given to him, Stiles gave back words, epiphanies, gave him explanations and hard breaths, gave him real emotions and thoughts, gave Derek the piece, the key to his humanity. Humanity he probably will loose and want to get back from time to time again while living here._

 

** …↨≈↨≈↨… **

 

_Nematon was open, beacon once again, but it remained dormant. There was nothing coming to Beacon Hills, drawn in by its call. Nematon had waited years, centuries for someone to wake it, there was no point to rush and ruin it by hectic and stupid activities, devoid of any purpose. The seed had been planted and now there was nothing left to do._

_Just as there were 6 people needed, it was needed here also. Three sacrifices and three anchors. To come, to succumb, to serve, to devote._

_Everyone was a bit angsty, a bit worried, a lot of nervous. No one knew what to do, no one really expected it to be easy or for it to work._

_But it hadn’t been easy. It had been treacherous slope to climb back onto, just to reach safety. They could all drop down at this very moment, greeted by abyss and never receiving another chance to go back._

_Nematon had been tricked. It had been tricked into believing that one sacrificed virgin, turned evil, turned desperate, was a point of reference for all human beings and their frailness, their eager want to break and to be broken. Nematon hadn’t expected three couples, three loves, true or not, it didn’t really matter, to exceed all the expectations by being supportive, not giving up, pure severance and strength and unbiased trust. Didn’t expect lambs to turn to lions, didn’t expect three healed people, supported by other three who had healed them. It made no sense, but Nematon hadn’t been based on reality and its terms, it had been based on magic and rituals, long gone, forgotten, loosing strength and wisdom. Nothing in this world was better than anything or anyone else. There was only so much power you could gain without trusting its success on other beings._

_Six people touching it, kissing it, forgiving it. The rotten stump, the old age, the greed. All of it forgiven and forgotten. It felt good to be a simple tree again. To stand tall and proud and wither away with age. It felt good not to possess this twisted need to invite trouble, to tie unexplainable forces to its will. Changing with seasons, changing with time and witnessing the simplicity of existence, that was a penance enough. That was reward and punishment all by itself. To betray nice, innocent people and to have them be willing to look past it, see the potential and touch without fear or disgust. It was enough. Roots reaching the underworld, apex reaching the universe and everything in-between humbled and grateful, living the life intended._

 

He woke up, first time in five months, by a dreadful feeling. By the last drop fading, giving up and giving something in return for all the torture, endurance, will to live and be happy showcased in its face. Derek woke up with him, always with him, in times like these.

“Stiles.” What Derek saw was nothing short of transparency. Stiles was looking at him, worried, ashamed, but completely free of everything that haunted them both.

Neither of them shied away from touches and a needy, desperate, life-affirming kiss they shared. Derek had waited for this to happen, had been hoping, healing, getting ready. Derek had been so fucking patient, he could be the master of going against werewolf nature, not touching, not loving, only talking and emoting, but he couldn’t deny first few moments of this. Of feeling everything together. Of placing all the stolen touches, all the pieces of a map he had learned one by one, by bringing it all together in one perfect drawing, one perfect declaration of life, of future, of friends and family.

Stiles laughed and it wasn’t bitter, it felt good, white and pure, unweighted down by all what had happened. “Not here, not here. We have to go back.” They agreed, they sealed it with a kiss and didn’t stop, exploring to their hearts content. Stiles felt unashamed and deserving. They had thought each other this. Not to feel guilty, not to apologize for things beyond control, to take when it was given and don’t question if it was deserved.

“Not here. “ Finally, Derek could verbalize it. There was some unfinished business to attend to. There were things needed, actions to take before… Anything happened. Of course, it meant something. It meant everything, there was no replacing, no denying this. But, both of them admitted, while the final mark for this, for everything wrong in their lives, was not laid down, tucked away, there couldn’t be a future they both wanted and were fucking entitled to. Sex could wait. Discovering together, uncovering everything buried by ash or buried by blood and insecurities, it could all wait until the moment it felt right.

“No guarantee, you know. There is none.” Stiles worried, worried and worried again. Their relationship was unbreakable and irreplaceable, but it could be, could be regressed back, into the beginning. He was not sure they could survive doing all of this again and again.

“I trust you.” Derek did, he did. He trusted Stiles not to poison him with wolfsbane ever again, even when he let him cook food and go hunting. He trusted their nights together, sleeping in each other’s arms, unafraid of Stiles trying to kill him again. He had been vary, he had been cautious, but he had never shown hesitance in trusting the younger man with providing, with apologizing, with showing, time and time again, that he loved Derek, despite the darkness, despite not being himself. Maybe, most of the time, it hadn’t been romantic love or even an epic love. Maybe, it had been an unhealthy attachment to his own humanity, hidden in Derek, but it had transformed and taken a beautiful form, leaving him breathless, sometimes even openly restraining from touching.

“Even if it all goes wrong, we’ll be in it together. This time we’ll just not bother with the healing. We’ll just have lots of sex and killing, okay?” It was still fucked-up, to know, to never waver in understanding that probably they couldn’t repeat this ever again. But they will be together, until the bitter end.

Instead of agreeing, instead of manifesting a suspicion of darkness still inside, Stiles crushed their expectations by being free of it all. “I have never not trusted you. Since the moment I met you, I was so gone, Derek.”

“I know, I know. I never intended to let you go. I assumed you’ll be there when I return, a little bit more sorted out, put together. I assumed a lot of things. I stopped wanting to make mistake after mistake. I rather screw up where you can see it, so that trust could be justified.”

“We changed places somewhere along the way.” Stiles became something needing a good therapy session, while Derek became someone who needed a college degree in psychology.

“We did. And now we are here.” It felt good to be here. To have battled almost all of the evils they had faced. Never giving in or up. Always together. Five months more important than anything else they’d done until that point.

“We are. And there is more to do.” That particular thought was comforting, somehow.

“There’ll always be more to do.” Some things never changed and it’ll be an amazing route to take on together.

“Good, good, we’ll never have a reason to complain our marriage is boring.” Each of those laughs should be saved and treasured in memory always, forever.

“Are we married?” Each of these rare, important, open smiles should be locked in his heart to take out on days when the world felt unsure beneath their feet.

“I think there is no other word for it.” _Will you be mine? Will you marry me? Will you destroy Nematon with me?_

“Yes.” _I do._

“Yes.” _I do too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it finished? Yes?  
> Is it sane? No?  
> But it's something!
> 
> Thank you for reading. I promise to attempt additional (horrible, horrible) porn chapter if… Miracles will happen? Eh. (No, they wont, they almost never do)
> 
> (I want to write better, can someone make me better?)


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